


Hooked

by foolsdance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Jealous John, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-A Study in Pink, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Undercover, Undercover As Prostitute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolsdance/pseuds/foolsdance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows cruising for sex is a supremely Bad Idea, but does it anyway in the hopes it will break him free of the ennui that has him in it's grip following his discharge from the army. He doesn't realize the sex worker he's taken home that night is, in fact, the world's only consulting detective, currently working undercover. He never intended it to be for more than one night, and certainly never counted on falling for the git.</p><p>An alternate way in which John meets Sherlock, set not long before they would have met in canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hooked

This was, clearly, a Bad Idea. If one were to rank all the bad ideas he'd come up with in the course of his life he imagined this one would rank somewhere between eating that sandwich off the dodgy food truck and the exceptionally ill advised one night stand with his university dorm mate. Although a bout of food poisoning and an entire term's worth of uncomfortable silences may turn out to be a walk in the park compared to the consequences of this particular decision.

 

He was blaming it all on Ella. His therapist's constant harping on his need to move forward and to get out more had got him thinking, eventually leading him here.

 

Although this almost certainly wasn't what she had in mind.

 

 

*

 

The street was poorly lit with a heavy pall of poverty and despair cloaking everything from the cracked pavements to the graffiti scrawled on darkened store fronts. The denizens of the area projected an almost identical air, with a large majority dressed in scanty and skin tight clothing designed to attract a customer or two.

 

They all looked so … sad. Desperate and hopeless underneath the false top note of gaiety and studied seduction. This really was a terrible idea, he thought once again, balancing on the edge of giving this up as a bad job and heading home for the night.

 

It was the thought of going back to that flat; that blank, empty, lifeless flat for yet another night of nothing but his own too loud thoughts for company that kept him from turning around and leaving right then and there.

 

And then he saw him. Dressed much the same as the others on the street, he didn't really stand out much at first. It was only when their eyes met that John's breath caught in his throat.

 

There was nothing desperate or hopeless about this boy. Or rather, man, because on second glance he did seem a bit older than most of the others out working the streets tonight. He could even be in his mid twenties, which made John feel slightly better about the dagger of lust that shot through him.

 

He really should just leave. He felt slightly unclean just being here, like the worst kind of pervert, one who used anothers misfortunes for his own pleasure.

 

A tap on the passenger side window brought him to his senses enough to realize he had at some point pulled over out of traffic, and the man he'd been eying had apparently taken that as an invitation.

 

Of course, it would be rude to simply drive off, so John rolled down the glass and said, “Sorry, there's been a misunderstanding...”

 

Those piercing eyes that had first caught his attention were looking straight through him now, dissecting him with an unnerving thoroughness. And dear sweet heaven, was that _eyeliner_ he was wearing?

 

“No, there really hasn't,” the other man stated firmly. “You find yourself stuck in a rut, ever since you've come back from... Afghanistan? Or was it Iraq? No matter. You've been searching for something without quite knowing what it is. And you thought a night of no strings debauchery might be just the thing to break you free from your ennui.”

 

John simply stared, stunned. “That's... right. But how did you know...”

 

The man waved a hand dismissively. “That's not important. What's important is that I'm agreeable to what you have in mind. I'd appreciate you unlocking the door, please.”

 

“Now,” he added, when John failed to instantly comply with his wishes.

 

“Oh,” John stammered, feeling wrong footed and not sure why, even as he does as he's told and unlocks the door. The passenger door opens and closes again almost immediately and his front seat is suddenly full of long, lean limbs and unruly dark hair.

 

A loud bang on the boot of the car startled him into pulling away from the curb. A quick glance in the rear view mirror showed him a very irate looking man, shaking a fist angrily at them as they drove away.

 

“Who was that? Your pimp?”

 

“Someone of no consequence,” his companion said, “but no, he most certainly is not. It would be stupid to share my profits when I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

 

John eyed him sidewise, trying to keep up with a conversation that felt dangerously out of control. “Where do we, I mean, I've never really done this before,” he said, because apparently he now made all his decisions with his cock.

“That is _excruciatingly_ obvious. Don't worry, you're in good hands with me.”

 

No braggadocio is evident in his voice, just a certainty that John finds both unnerving and reassuring all at once.

 

“Yes, I suspect I am,” John murmurs, even as he swerves suddenly to avoid another car whose driver apparently felt no need to check before changing lanes. “What's your name, by the way?”  
  
“You can call me Sherlock.”

 

*

 

Sherlock tells him they might as well use John's flat, which is just fine with him. The home field advantage could come in quite handy, after all. And it wasn't as though there was anything worth stealing there, anyway.

 

John had halfway expected some skepticism or outright disbelief when he'd shared his name, but Sherlock had merely raised one eyebrow, saying nothing. Not about that, at any rate. He was to find that Sherlock, as a matter of course, had an opinion on most subjects and wasn't adverse to sharing it. He also had an exceptionally high opinion of himself.

 

“You're worried, still. You needn't be. I said I would take of things and I will.”

 

John watched from his position near the bathroom door – the furthest point from the front door, where Sherlock stood – as the other man stalked over to him. And what kind of name _was_ Sherlock, anyway? Surely it was made up; to give him an air of mystery, perhaps, or to make him stand out from the crowd.

 

He needn't have bothered. He suspected Sherlock couldn't get lost in a crowd if he tried.

 

Suddenly Sherlock was right there, in his personal space, trapping John against the wall. He leaned in even closer, hot breath ghosting across his skin as he whispered in John's ear, “Take off your clothes.”

 

Wasn't that supposed to be his line? Something was seriously amiss about the power balance here. Nonetheless, John did as he was told and began to strip, hesitating only when he got down to his briefs. Not out of any sense of modesty - the army was quite good at getting that right out of you - but because Sherlock was still fully dressed and watching him with a clinical detachment that John found unnerving.

 

Sherlock seemed to understand the reason for his hesitation as he began to likewise strip down, only he didn't stop until there was nothing touching his skin but air.

 

All that beautiful, alabaster skin was right there, only inches away. John's hands twitched in an instinctive desire to touch it, caress him until that skin was flush with arousal. Over the past few years he'd been mostly successful in keeping the part of him that enjoyed the body of a man just as much as a woman's submerged, where it could cause no mischief in battlefields of Afghanistan. But here and now there was no reason to hold back. No reason at all.

 

Sherlock hooked one finger in the waistband of John's briefs and slowly, teasingly, slid them down his legs. His breath caught in his throat at this first, almost innocent, touch. The knuckle of one long lean finger ran the length of John's leg from hip to ankle, leaving Sherlock kneeling before him when it was done.

 

John blushed as his cock was revealed, already taking an obvious interest in the proceedings. He half expected Sherlock to make some snide remark or maybe a joke but instead he simply eyed it with that same clinical detachment he'd seen earlier.

 

“I'm going to go down on you now. Would you prefer to stand or sit?”

 

John choked and stumbled a bit as his bad leg buckled, because that just wasn't something people said. At least, not in his experience. And definitely not as casually as one would talk about the weather.

 

“What?” he said. _Brilliant, John_.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and repeated, his tone conveying that his opinion of John's IQ had just plummeted. “Stand. Or. Sit.”

 

There was no way he'd remain upright through a blow job, so John took the four steps necessary to bring him to the bed. He tried and failed not to think about how ridiculous he must look, cock bobbing around in front of him as he went. He seated himself and concentrated on looking calm and collected.

 

And then Sherlock was right there again, only now he was kneeling between John's legs as he sat on the edge of the bed. He looked up at John and smiled; a small, secret smile that John wasn't quite sure how to take but then he didn't care about that any more because – bloody hell – Sherlock had taken him in hand and was sliding his tongue up and down his length from root to tip.

 

John clutched the bed covers and concentrated on not thrusting – an unfortunate experience in university had taught him the inadvisability of that – and then on not coming in an embarrassingly quick manner. But Sherlock, no doubt through his hard won experience, sensed how close John was getting and stopped with a shocking suddenness. He looked up at John through messy curls, the head of John's cock resting lightly on his tongue as he slowly, teasingly let it slide off the tip.

 

John was fairly certain that was the most erotic thing he had yet to see in his lifetime.

 

Sherlock stood then, moving around the room to retrieve a packet of slick and a condom from his clothing. He flung himself down on the bed with reckless abandon and announced, “You can watch me open myself, now. If you like. And you do.”

 

John did.

 

Sherlock obviously had no filter whatsoever, just saying whatever came to mind without caring about the social niceties most people adhered to religiously.

 

He likewise had no shame whatsoever about performing such an intimate act on his body in front of a complete stranger, but then again, John thought, he wouldn't. He thrust two fingers in right away and John didn't miss the slight wince at the abrupt invasion. A bit more slick was applied when he added a third – too soon, in John's opinion, but then Sherlock must know what he's about, surely. He never once closed his eyes during the entire procedure, indeed, he never looked away from John sitting next to him on the bed.

 

For his part John varied between watching those elegant fingers disappearing in and out of Sherlock's body and meeting his eyes in return, so serious and searching as they watched him in return.

 

“I'm ready,” Sherlock announced at length, and John was once again sure it was too soon but was more than able to put inconvenient thought aside. He moved over on the bed, getting between Sherlock's legs stopping only when he put one hand on John's shoulder. John felt something happening with his cock and looked down to find a condom being expertly slid on.

 

He'd forgotten. How could he have forgotten such a basic safe sex act as using a condom? He never had before. He was lucky Sherlock had more presence of mind than he did at the moment.

 

Sherlock lay back then and raised his hips slightly, invitingly, and that was all the imputes John needed. Pressing in slowly, determined to be careful in this if it killed him, he slid home into surprisingly tight heat.

 

Sherlock's eyelids were fluttering shut now with every shallow thrust, letting go after a time of his grip on the bedspread and holding on to John's forearms. That simple touch triggered a flurry of activity from John, who began driving home deeper and more forcefully.

 

Sherlock, who had been mostly soft at first, was now fully erect and leaking. John was embarrassed to realize he had completely neglected his partners cock. There was no time like the present to make up for that oversight. With only a few strokes he brought Sherlock off, spunk coating his hand and dripping down onto Sherlock's chest, while he himself followed soon after.

 

Exhausted, he collapsed onto Sherlock and waited for his heart to stop pounding quite so loudly. He felt himself softening, still buried inside Sherlock's tight channel, and eventually roused himself enough to pull carefully out and away. He didn't move far, though, lying back on the bed next to Sherlock, who was lying perfectly still.

 

This was the point in the evening when John would normally cuddle, although it was a trickier proposition when it came to men. Granted, he hadn't had any experience in that area for quite some time now, but as he remembered some men didn't enjoy that closeness just after sex.

 

John loved it. Loved the warmth as the endorphins he'd just generated slowly ebbed away, loved the skin on skin contact while nerve endings were still tingling. Loved the little bubble of intimacy in which it felt like they were the only two people in world.

 

It occurred to John that it didn't really matter whether or not Sherlock wanted to cuddle as he was being paid to do what John liked. And then immediately felt ashamed of himself, because even if Sherlock was just a street corner hustler, he was still a human being deserving of respect.

 

“You can hold me if you wish,” Sherlock said, and John immediately complied. He said it with the air of someone granting a rather large boon and John wondered, not for the first time, what his story was.

 

He seemed to be of high birth, vowels dripping of public schools and prestigious post codes. Then again, he could simply be an exceptional mimic. Whatever the case may be, things were obviously not going as they should in Sherlock's life at this moment in time. John couldn't imagine resorting to selling one's own body in any but the direst of circumstances.

 

He raised his head slightly from where he had laid it on Sherlock's shoulder and took a good look at Sherlock's boy through eyes no longer clouded by lust. He'd noted the other man's thinness before, but now he began to wonder if there was a reason behind it, something other than biology.

 

Perhaps Sherlock was so thin for one simple reason – he couldn't afford to eat, at least, not on a regular basis.

 

“I'm feeling a bit peckish. Mind if I order a bite?” he announced to the room at large.

 

He could feel rather than see Sherlock's quizzical look as he answered. “As I am at your command, at least for the time being, you may do as you wish.” He stopped and considered his words for a moment before adding, “Within reason, of course.”

 

“Of course,” John got up regretfully and dug out his pile of take away menus from local restaurants. He passed them over to Sherlock who looked at the pile in puzzlement.

 

“See what looks good.”

 

Sherlock settled quickly on the Indian place around the corner but choosing what to actually order took a bit longer. After some coaxing. John finally got him to admit to butter chicken being “acceptable”, so he ordered a double order of that, to be delivered.

 

John lay back down on the bed after calling in the order but didn't try for another cuddle, even though he felt slightly cheated in that department as the earlier one had been so brief.

But this was still nice, another body in the bed, the silence between them companionable instead of uncomfortable. John was just about to drift off to sleep when the knock came at the door.

 

As it turned out, getting Sherlock to eat was a far trickery proposition than getting him in bed. In the end he manged to coax him into eating half of his portion, while John, who hadn't been all that hungry in the first place, surprised himself by polishing off his and what was left of Sherlock's order.

 

It seemed as though he was mistaken about the reason for Sherlock's thinness.

 

They had one more bout of sex, slower now that the first frenzy of lust had been satiated, but no less passionate for all that. John felt pretty strongly about making up for his earlier neglect of Sherlock and spent most of the time experimenting with various ways to bring him pleasure. As it turned out, his ears were extraordinarily sensitive.

 

John fell asleep after a satisfying conclusion and awoke several hours later to find his bed empty and cold. He felt a moment of panic when he noticed that his wallet was on the night table next to his phone, where he had most definitely not left it the night before, and opened it, fully expecting to find it empty.

 

He was right. It _was_ empty – of cash, anyway. Not that there had been much in it, maybe fifty pounds if he remembered rightly. Everything else remained untouched.

 

He searched the room but found no note. He did so knowing it was ridiculous to expect one, to hope for one, but was unable to stop himself nonetheless.

 

John poked along through the rest of his day as the euphoria from the night before slowly bled away, leaving him feeling much the same as he'd done yesterday, before he'd met Sherlock. Maybe even lower.

 

Sleep was hard come by that night.

 

The following morning he woke to the disturbing realization that a part of him had been misled by his tryst with Sherlock. It was nothing that could be laid at the other man's feet. No, it was wholly his own neediness that had triggered this particular delusion. Because on some level, it hadn't felt like a business transaction or even a sleazy one night stand. On some level, it had felt like the beginning of something real. And that made John the biggest fool of all.

 

Nothing Sherlock had said or done had even hinted at the possibility of such a thing. To him it was all about the money, pure and simple.

 

Obviously the only thing to do was to move on with his life and forget Sherlock, who had no doubt not given him a second thought.

 

Three days after the night that John was Not Dwelling On, he was nursing a pint at the pub when his mobile chimed.

 

 _Free this evening_ , the text message read, and it was signed simply _S_.

 

There was only one S he could think of right off hand, although he was quite sure he hadn't given out his number to Sherlock. Still, he supposed it would have been a relatively simple matter to get it from his phone while John had slept. Before he'd run off like a thief in the night. Not that John was bitter or anything.

 

Without giving himself time to think it through, he texted back a reply.

 

*

 

John took out a hundred pounds this time, just to be on the safe side.

 

Sherlock showed up just after seven, as arranged, and tackled him into the bed with a frenzy that made their first time seem almost tame in comparison. Afterwords, as John lay in bed attempting to catch his breath, he noticed Sherlock's appearance properly for the first time.

 

He looked, quite frankly, terrible. Haggard and unkempt, clearly riding the thin edge of exhaustion to the breaking point. For the first time it occurred to him that Sherlock might be an addict. He knew from his studies at medical school that addiction was epidemic among sex workers.

 

Sherlock's eyes were fever bright as they watched him even though his demeanor was peaceful in comparison to the frenetic energy he'd come in with. John did a casual perusal of Sherlock's arm – no track marks that he could see. Of course, that wasn't proof of anything. Many addicts shot up between their toes or even high up on the inner thigh, precisely so they wouldn't be detected. And addiction didn't always involve needles, of course.

 

“I'm not using,” Sherlock stated calmly.

 

“Ever?” John asked, no longer quite as shocked at Sherlock's perceptiveness.

 

“I didn't say that. But not now.”

 

Not now could mean not right at this moment or not for several months, but of course, in the end it wasn't really any of his business anyway. “How long has it been since you slept?” John asked, changing the subject intentionally.

 

Sherlock's forehead creased as he considered the question and John thought – _if it's been so long you have to stop and think about it..._

 

“Day before yesterday?” he said, and that was definitely a note of uncertainty in his voice.

 

“Right,” John said firmly. “ _That_ is unacceptable. Humans need sleep to function and you _will_ sleep before leaving this room.”

 

Sherlock looked nonplussed at this and John wondered how long it had been since anyone showed him even this small amount of concern over his well being. “Please?” he added, when Sherlock didn't immediately acquiesce.

 

Then unexpectedly, he nodded slightly. “If you insist. No reason not to now, anyway.”

 

Before John could ask what the reason was for him not sleeping before, Sherlock was closing his eyes and fading into rest. When he was fairly sure his bed mate was well and truly gone John daringly laid his head on Sherlock's bony shoulder, wrapping one arm around his chest.

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he whispered to the quiet room before drifting off himself.

 

When he awoke the bed was once again empty. John's heart sunk until he heard the unmistakable sounds of someone puttering around in his en suite bathroom.

 

“Sherlock?” he called out tentatively, even though logically he knew there was no one else it could be.

 

A tousled head, mouth full of toothpaste, peered around the corner at him.

 

“Do you always start the day by stating the obvious?”

 

John smiled despite himself. “Only when my brains have been thoroughly scrambled the night before,” he answered.

 

Sherlock looked pleased at this comeback and ducked back inside the bathroom only to reappear a few minutes later. He'd obviously made free with John's toiletries and shower - not that John minded, of course - and looked incredibly improved on the night before. He also, John noticed for the first time, looked quite a bit older than he had the first time they'd met. Mostly due to his clothes, John thought. They were nothing special, the sort of thing any young man in the city might wear, but compared to what he'd worn the first time they'd met it was positively demure.

 

The lack of eye liner didn't hurt, either.

 

“Sherlock, how old are you?” he asked abruptly.

 

Sherlock looked surprised at the question but said only “Well past legal, if that's what's concerning you.”

 

“No, I mean I could tell _that_ much, it's just that you look older than before.”

 

The other man hunched over defensively, “Too old for you, am I? Like them young and fresh?”

 

“No!” John said, appalled at how his question was being misconstrued. “Actually it's a relief. I felt rather, well, pervy. Before. Thinking you might possibly be just out of your teens. So, this is better,” he added.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's rambling but looked a bit pleased before saying, “Right. Well, I'll be off then.”

 

“If you must.” John watched as Sherlock finished dressing, admiring the play of muscles as he moved about the room entirely unselfconscious in his state of partial undress, while the nagging feeling he was forgetting something important ate at him.

 

“Oh!” he gasped as Sherlock was lacing up his shoes. He reached into the bedside table and pulled out his wallet. “I wasn't sure how much...” he trailed off as he held out the hundred pounds. Sherlock looked off balance for just a moment and John had the sickening feeling he'd just insulted him somehow. Maybe it wasn't enough? It was more than last time, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The last thing he wanted to do was to insult Sherlock or to devalue him in any way.

 

“Sherlock?” he prompted, as the other man simply stood there.

 

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and took the money from John's hand, counting out fifty pounds, the same as before, and returning the rest.

 

“This will do,” he said, “after all, I'm sure your pension isn't extravagant by any means.”

 

He'd been gone a good hour before it occurred to John to wonder how he'd known about his pension.

 

*

 

This then, was the pattern for their relationship, if you could call it that. Every so often, with no pattern John could discern, Sherlock would text him out of the blue and they'd meet. Always at John's flat, they never went out. Sex was always on the menu, of course, but as time went on they talked more and more often. Mostly between bouts and after, as Sherlock was always flatteringly eager to get things going right off the bat.

 

Sherlock was, John came to realize, incredibly intelligent. And very aware of this fact. Whatever his other problems were, a lack of self esteem was not one of them. Correspondingly his opinion of other people in general was fairly low.

 

“Idiots,” he pronounced, as they watched _Blockbusters_ on telly, “How can you watch such drivel? _You_ , at least, are reasonably intelligent.”

 

John was fairly sure that was supposed to be a complement, so he took it as such. “You know, Sherlock, for someone as admittedly intelligent as you are, you might have chosen another profession. One in which you use your brains on a regular basis rather than your body.”

 

John regretted his words immediately as Sherlock's face closed off with a nearly audible. He flicked off the telly in annoyance and stood, putting on his coat in a typically dramatic fashion.

 

“Perhaps I shouldn't be contaminating you with my presence, then, if it offends you so much,” he said, as haughty as any peer, and swirled off in a huff, leaving John stunned as to what had just happened.

 

Obviously he'd hit on a sore subject.

 

John was well aware Sherlock could disappear from his life at any time. Nothing tied him to John, who had no idea where he lived or how to reach him other than the phone number he'd been given. He didn't even know Sherlock's surname, or if Sherlock was actually his given name.

 

One day he asked Sherlock if he worked the street where they'd met on a regular basis, thinking it would be a way to find him if necessary. Sherlock had looked amused as he answered, “No. Almost never, actually.”

 

“So where do you usually meet people?”

 

“I don't,” Sherlock answered. At John's look of confusion, he added, “I have regulars, for the most part, and clients who are referred to me.”

 

“You are safe, then? Careful?” John asked, because he'd seen the odd bruise on Sherlock from time to time, bruises he'd tried hard not to dwell on because then he'd have to think about how he likely got them. And picturing other hands on Sherlock's body, in any context that mattered, was almost more than he could bear.

 

“Yes, John. I assure you I'm as careful as is possible. In _every_ way possible.”

 

John supposed that was the best he could ask for under the circumstances.

 

It didn't help much when worry would wake him up at night, his nightmares shifting over time from war time horrors to visions of Sherlock being assaulted, beaten, and left for dead. If Sherlock happened to be in bed with him when this happened he'd study him solemnly in the darkened room before tentatively petting his hair until John could sleep once more.

 

*

 

One day, as Sherlock came through the door with his customary flair, John stopped him before he could be manhandled into bed. On occasion Sherlock would dash off immediately after sex, and John didn't want to put this off any longer.

 

“Wait,” he said one hand on Sherlock's shoulder holding him at arm's length. “I need to talk to you first.”

 

“Yes?” Sherlock prompted, with more than a hint of wariness. “What is it, John?”

 

“I was wondering, that is I was thinking that maybe...”

 

“Just say it. If you have tired of us, of this, then simply say so,” Sherlock said calmly but John saw clearly the way his lips were thinned and eyes narrowed.

 

“No, that's not it – please don't put words in my mouth. There is an concert tonight by that pianist you like, I thought we might go.”

 

Sherlock just seemed to... stop then, and John was treated to the sight of a truly dumbfounded Sherlock.

 

“You want to go out? On a _date_?” he said slowly.

 

“Yes,” John answered simply, because he was nothing if not brave when needs be.

 

“I. I don't know if I can. I may be... busy.”

 

“Busy,” John repeated flatly, and tried and failed to keep from picturing exactly how Sherlock might be _busy_ tonight. To his credit, Sherlock had been exceptionally discrete about his other clients, as he called them, so much so that John could sometimes pretend they didn't exist. That he was the only one allowed to touch Sherlock's beautiful body, the only one who got to hear his sex roughened voice, the only one who saw his face as it twisted with passion. He knew it was a fool's paradise but it was one in which he preferred to dwell. Reality was a much harsher place, after all.

 

But then like an idiot, he'd been greedy enough to want more.

 

Sherlock made his excuses, claiming a suddenly remembered prior engagement that John didn't even have time to pretend to believe before he was gone. Gone as though he'd never been there at all.

 

John stood there for a very long time, exactly as Sherlock had left him, staring at the closed door he'd left through so abruptly.

 

He was truly the prince of fools.

 

*

 

John waited three agonizing days before finally breaking down and texting Sherlock. He spent another two waiting for a reply before sending another but sent no more when there was still no reply. It was clear Sherlock had written him off as a lovesick idiot who didn't or couldn't understand the true nature of their relationship. Who wouldn't see that it was nothing more than business for Sherlock.

 

The hardest thing to deal with was that John had known this all along and disregarded it, pushing for more even while knowing it was futile.

 

Exactly a week after their final, brief meeting John finally received the text he'd been waiting for. With trembling hands he punched the button on his mobile, only to hit the wrong key and have to start over. When he finally opened the message he felt his blood freeze in his veins.

 

“ _John_ ,” it read, “ _while I have valued our association it's clear its time is over. S_ ”

 

John dropped his phone on the floor as though it were contaminated, kicking it almost reflexively under the bed. Which suddenly seemed like the place to be, so he climbed on it and tried very hard to think of nothing at all.

 

He wasn't even remotely successful.

 

*

 

After a four day funk spent mostly in bed John kicked his own arse into gear and forced himself to get out and live again.

 

Well, at least he got out of bed. The living part was debatable. But he did make an effort to spend a few hours out of the flat every day, visiting his favorite pub, doing a bit of shopping at Tescos, or sometimes just walking. Which is how he ran into Sherlock purely by accident one day. At least, that's what he would swear to later. If it happened that his walks were frequently in the vicinity of places he knew Sherlock liked to frequent – that book store just off Trafalgar Square, for example, or the Thai restaurant Sherlock had told him was “passable”, then who was to say otherwise?

 

It was just down the block from that very restaurant that John saw him. Sherlock was nearly a block away but it was clearly him, that long lean frame distinctive in any crowd. John was fairly sure Sherlock hadn't spotted him yet, so he ducked behind a convenient column and tried to go for casual.

 

The last thing he wanted was to be pegged as a stalker.

 

John risked a glance and saw he needn't have worried. Sherlock's entire attention was on someone else.

 

It was a man, older than Sherlock, most likely older than John himself. Someone Sherlock clearly knew, and knew well, judging by his body language. The man was telegraphing anger, and John's breath caught in his throat as the man reached for Sherlock. He didn't strike him, however, but appeared to be growling something at Sherlock, who simply stood there calmly with as blank an expression as John had yet seen on his face.

 

He began walking in the couple's direction before he'd quite realized what he was doing but stopped after only a few steps. It wasn't likely Sherlock would want or appreciate his interference and it wasn't as though anything was actually going on. Anyway, they were walking away now, side by side while John stood and watched them leave.

 

Was this man the source of the bruises he'd seen on Sherlock's body from time to time?

 

What gave him the right to sully someone like Sherlock, who was worth ten of _him_. Sherlock, who was breathtakingly smart, and perceptive, and beautiful. Who sometimes watched him as if he were the only person in existence. Who could be astonishingly self-centered and then turn right around and see to it that John didn't get cold in the middle of the night. Who was prickly and difficult and utterly full of himself. Who was an addict and a prostitue and God only knew what else.

 

Who had brought life and joy back into John's life.

 

Bloody hell, he was in love with the wanker.

 

Fool was too noble a title for him.

 

*

 

The very next day John went looking for and found a job. It wasn't much, just a simple locum position at a local surgery, but it was better than sitting around moping. He even made a friend there, a Miss Sarah Sawyer. Exactly the sort of person he'd have gone for under other circumstances.

 

Sarah seemed to pick up pretty quickly that only friendship was on the cards between them and may even have discerned he was reeling from a breakup. ( _Was that what it was? Can you breakup with someone when all you'd done is shag, watch some bad telly and eaten a few meals together in his flat? It seemed so._ ) John gathered this from the distinct note of sympathy in her voice when she spoke to him and from the way she tried to coax him into going out with her.

 

It was very clearly a pity outing she was offering, one which John was not too proud to take in the end. Because one more night sitting alone on the couch, or lying alone in bed staring at the ceiling just might drive him round the bend.

 

Sometimes one's own thoughts were the loudest thing in a silent space.

 

The evening went perfectly well. John was rather proud of himself for being reasonably lively and personable, while Sarah told amusing anecdotes about people at work. He was fairly sure he'd never be able to look Dr. Logan in the eye again without picturing him in lacy pink panties – someone that hirsute shouldn't go for the sexy lingerie, in his humble opinion – but he was surprised to find himself enjoying the evening very much. And, he was proud to say, he had barely thought about Sherlock at all. He firmly squashed the little voice in his head that called him a big, fat, liar and pinned a smile to his face.

 

This was fun. No, really. It was.

 

It was just his luck then to run into Sherlock, coming in as they were leaving. Those oddly colorless eyes that John had once thought cold flicked from himself to Sarah and back again before he nodded briefly and, incredibly, kept moving into the pub. Surely their time together rated at least a “Good day” or maybe “Piss off”. John stopped him with a hand on his arm and they stood staring into each others eyes for one long, drawn out moment.

 

“Right then. I'll just be off, shall I?” Sarah said, watching the pair in amusement. “That you for a lovely evening, John.”

 

John nodded without really taking in anything beyond the fact that Sherlock was _here_ , standing right here in front of him.

 

But not alone, he realized when someone standing just behind Sherlock cleared his throat in a rather pointed manner. John began to apologize for blocking the doorway before he got a better look at who was interrupting this moment with his sort of ex – it was the man he'd seen with Sherlock the other day.

 

“May I speak with you in private? Please?” he added as Sherlock hesitated.

 

“Very well,” Sherlock answered and indicated with a jerk of his head that his companion should wait for him inside. By mutual unspoken agreement he and John stepped outside together.

 

“I assume you want to castigate me for the manner in which...”

 

John stopped him with one furious look. “Just answer me this, Sherlock, and I'll leave you alone from here on out. Why?”

 

“Why?” Sherlock echoed. “Why what?”

 

“Why did you leave the way you did? Scratch that, why did you leave at all? And don't give me that twaddle from before. Respect my intelligence, please.”

 

John realized too late that he'd given Sherlock the perfect set up to insult him, to deflect his perfectly reasonable question into a pointless argument. Sherlock, however, surprised him by doing no such thing.

 

“Very well, John. If you want the truth, you shall have it. I knew our association was going to end in the near future no matter what and chose to end it myself, with as little fuss as possible. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

 

“What does that mean exactly? I don't understand.”

 

“Let me spell it out for you then. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a prostitute. The night we met I was working undercover. I chose not to tell you the truth so that I could enjoy a night a sex with no tedious expectations the next morning.”

 

John felt his hands fall to his side as he tried to process this. “You mean you wanted a one night stand and _that's_ how you went about getting one? Do you know how stupidly dangerous that could have been? If anyone but me had happened by...”

 

“Don't be stupider than you can help, John. I wouldn't have left with just anyone.” The unspoken “ _only you_ ” hung in the air between them, leaving John fluctuating madly between feeling flattered and furious.

 

“So you broke up with me because you knew sooner or later I would deduce the truth. Especially once we began going out in public. And you assumed this way would be cleaner for all involved.”

 

Sherlock nodded, clearly pleased John was catching on at last. “Exactly.”

 

“You,” John took a deep breath and enunciated very plainly, determined that Sherlock understand him clearly, “are the world's _biggest_ idiot.”

 

Sherlock blinked at him. Once, twice, then opened his mouth to speak. John held up his hand to forestall him.

 

“No, I mean it. Anyone but you would have seen I was totally gone over you. Almost right from the first. That I wanted nothing more than to be with you, in any way I could have you.”

 

John could practically see the wheels turning in Sherlock's mind.

 

“And don't think I won't make you pay for all the worry you've caused me. Every year on our anniversary, I'll expect lavish apology gifts. Not just the first year, mind. _Every_ _one_. Do you have any _idea_ how many times I've pictured you dead in an ally way, beaten to death by a trick, or coming down with a horrible social disease, or...”

 

“Anniversary?” Sherlock interrupted with an entirely uncharacteristic lack of confidence in his voice. “Does that mean...”

“Of course, you idiot. There's no way I'm letting you walk away. From me, from us, from this... whatever this is.” John paused and took another deep breath in an effort to calm down. “Though we'll have to move, of course, my flat is far too small for the two of us on a full time basis.”

 

Sherlock smiled and said quietly, “I believe I know just the place.”

 

As they walked away, side by side, John asked, “So, what _do_ you do for a living then? Because I don't really see you as a copper.”

 

Unseen by either man, Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped out to see what was keeping Sherlock, just in time to hear the words floating through the cool night air.

 

“And what exactly, _is_ a consulting detective?”


End file.
